


complete the mystery of my flesh

by blackkat



Series: Feemor prompts [2]
Category: Star Wars: The Clone Wars (2008) - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Amnesia, Flirting, Humor, M/M, Rescue, kind of
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-20
Updated: 2020-09-20
Packaged: 2021-03-07 16:35:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,757
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26570758
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blackkat/pseuds/blackkat
Summary: Alpha meets a Jedi who's weird even by Jedi standards. Even weirder is the fact that theykeepmeeting.
Relationships: Alpha-17/Feemor, Feemor & Xanatos
Series: Feemor prompts [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1941688
Comments: 48
Kudos: 751





	complete the mystery of my flesh

**Author's Note:**

> For a prompt: Feemor/Alpha and the forgotten Jedi who keeps showing up in the nick of time

There are twenty cadets in the room behind him, and Alpha is the only thing between them and a whole squad of battle droids trying to get in.

It’s not the worst situation he’s been in. Not _quite_. Alpha’s out of ammunition, out of armor, out of options; he’s down to his fists, his training, his experience, but that’s not a hell of a lot when the whole hallway is filled with droids and there's no way out, no way to save his charges. He tears through another battle droid, flings the head hard enough to knock out a second one, but there are thirty behind it and he doesn’t even have a _weapon_ —

The blue blade of a lightsaber slices through a commando droid, reverses, bisects three battle droids in one swift blue, and Alpha will never admit to it, but he feels a flare of relief that can only come with a Jedi's presence. There aren’t supposed to _be_ Jedi on Kamino right now, but there's no doubt that the man who shoves through the gap, laying around himself with a skill Alpha wishes he could teach, is a Jedi, and a welcome one at that.

Not that Alpha would ever dream of _saying_ that.

“Think it took you long enough?” he asks pointedly, instead, and shoulder-checks a droid who’s about to fire at the Jedi into a wall. “We’ve been down here for a galactic age.”

With a whirl of blue plasma, the Jedi blocks a shot, cuts through the last commando droid, and raises a hand. The three battle droids closing in on Alpha go flying, crashing into the wall with a clatter of breaking metal, and the Jedi straightens. He’s breathing a little hard, and there's a long, bloody cut across his cheek, one of his sleeves torn off and used to wrap a wound on his upper arm. When he looks at Alpha, though, he smiles.

“Sorry,” he says. “Your comm isn't transmitting. I had to search the whole building to find you.”

Alpha glances down at his comm, then holds it up, showing off the deep blaster mark that almost cut all the way through it. “Can't imagine why.”

“Oh,” the Jedi says, bemused. He straightens, deactivating his lightsaber, and then gives Alpha a rueful smile. “Yeah, that would do it.”

Alpha doesn’t quite trust that smile. It’s too pretty. Too _nice_. Between the blue eyes and the smile and the freckles, he puts Alpha’s hackles up a little. No Human _actually_ looks like that outside of Senatorial Guard recruitment holos.

“And who’d you be?” he asks, taking a step back to put himself firmly in the doorway, between the Jedi and the cadets. “I thought General Ti took all the Jedi on Kamino out to fight in the Rishi Maze.”

The Jedi's smile goes crooked. “I think Master Ti forgot I was on Kamino,” he says. “I got in late last night and we only spoke for a moment. I'm Master Feemor. It’s a pleasure to meet you.” He puts his hands together around his lightsaber and bows, perfectly polite, exactly the right depth to convey respect without subservience, and when he rises he’s still smiling.

Alpha squints at him. That sounds like bullshit. It sounds _entirely_ like bullshit, and he hates that he can't tell if this man is fucking with him or not. Alpha’s had enough practice to pick out the people who are trying to make a fool out of him, but this is ridiculous.

“General Feemor,” he repeats, and he’s definitely going to look up the name as soon as the guy turns his back. “Thanks for the help. Even if it was belated.”

Feemor doesn’t get offended, just laughs a little. “You're welcome, and I'm sorry. How are you? Should I call a med-droid?”

Alpha’s fists are bleeding, and his ribs are probably broken, but—he can make his way to the medical bay on his own. “I'm fine. Cadets too.”

Feemor’s blue eyes widen. “Cadets?” he asks, and crosses the last few yards between them. Alpha straightens automatically, pulling himself up to his full height, because like hell this guy is getting close to his trainees, and—

Feemor stops, blinking. He looks Alpha up, then down again, and blinks once more, then says, “Oh. You’re…big.”

Alpha snorts. “That’s what the last hooker I picked up said,” he needles, and Feemor flushes pink.

“Sorry!” he says, raising his hands. “I just—you just surprised me. I'm used to clones being…”

“Short,” Alpha says sardonically. “Like Jango.”

“Well,” Feemor say diplomatically, though he’s still flushed. “Yes, in comparison.”

“They added something extra to my batch.” Alpha returns the up-and-down sweep of his eyes, and…it’s not often that he looks another Human in the face, but Feemor’s not small, either. He’s broad across the shoulders, and the Jedi robes are about as flattering as garbage sacks, but Alpha is pretty sure he can make out muscle underneath their drape.

“So I see,” Feemor says cheerfully, and rises on his tiptoes to look over Alpha’s shoulder into the room. He gives the cadets a friendly wave and a warm smile, then rocks back down to stand flat-footed and checks his comm. “You can get them to the evacuation zone by yourself? Someone just triggered the alarms on the Genetic Records Hall.”

All the remaining samples of Jango's DNA are in that room, and Alpha goes cold at the thought of Separatists getting their hands on those files. “Then what the hell are you still doing here?”

Feemor gives him an odd smile. “Lives that exist right now are just as important as lives that could exist in the future,” he says. “Besides, Ventress isn't through the door yet. A friend is holding her back.”

“Friend,” Alpha repeats skeptically, but Feemor is already gone, loping down the hall with long, deceptively quick strides until he vanishes around the next corner.

With no other answers forthcoming, Alpha looks around the corridor, kicking a fallen droid that’s been neatly cut in half, and blows out a breath in disgust.

“Kriff,” he says. “ _Jetii_.”

There's no answer in the blindingly white hall, just the wail of alarms and the sound of distant baster-fire.

Alpha knows before he even opens his eyes that the mission’s gone tits-up, and not just because someone is yelling.

“—and _not only_ are you subjecting me to these _horrific_ accommodations, but you're forcing me to _cohabitate_? I _demand_ to speak with the general immediately—”

Alpha groans, face-down on a filthy stone floor with his hands locked behind him. “Kriffing hells, shut _up_.”

There's a pause, one blessed handful of seconds of silence, and then a snort. “Awake? How unfortunate.”

“Not as unfortunate as your face,” Alpha says, without even opening his eyes, and listens. there's a guard breathing outside the door, but he can't hear anything else. “Hope you didn’t pay money for it.”

“You're simply overcome with horror at our situation, so I won't gut you for that,” his cellmate says, silky with threat. “Be grateful.”

Alpha scoffs, rolling over onto his side, and finally manages to pry his eyes open. One whole side of his head is a mask of blood and pain, and he seems to recall a warhammer that one of the big, shiny new commando droids was _way_ too fond of, but he can see straight. Mostly. Not that there's all that much to look at except a man dressed all in black, tall and whipcord lean and sporting a truly ridiculous mustache and goatee.

“You look like the cheap villain in a low-budget holo,” Alpha tells him, because that seems like the kind of thing he should know.

Dark blue eyes narrow, and the man looks down his sharp nose at him in an expression that’s almost impressively snooty. “I beg your pardon?”

“Then beg.” Alpha closes his eyes again, testing the cuffs, but they were clearly designed with greater-than-normal strength in mind, and they don’t even budge. He grits his teeth, then tries again, straining against the metal until it feels like his muscles are going to tear.

“If you tear yourself right out of your shirt with those ridiculously oversized muscles, I'm calling the guard,” the man says. “No one wants to see that.”

“Good to know your taste is terrible, too,” Alpha grits out, unimpressed, but after a long moment he has to ease back, trying to catch his breath. “Kark this place.”

The man makes a low sound of amusement, leaning back against the wall. “Yes, well, that much I believe we can both agree on. It is—”

A sound in the hall cuts him off, and Alpha surges to his feet just as there's a choked cry, a thud, a familiar humming snap. Blue light washes under the heavy door, and a moment later there's a hiss of melting metal.

“ _Finally_ ,” the man in black says, though there's something like real relief on his face as he takes two steps across the room. “I thought you were going to leave me here to _rot_.”

From the other side of the door, there's a laugh. A _familiar_ laugh. A moment later, something bangs against the door, and it gives, swinging open with a loud creak. Framed in the doorway is a blond Jedi with freckles and a blue lightsaber, smiling.

“Sorry, Xanatos,” he says, and steps forward as the other man turns around. The cuffs snap down the center, and when the man turns back, Feemor tosses him a black cloak, a fancy comm unit, and a lightsaber hilt. “I thought you’d want these back.”

Xanatos’s expression washes into relief for half an instant, then quickly returns to scathing lines. “Did you fall asleep somewhere? It’s been _hours_.”

“I had to fight my way through five levels,” Feemor protests. “Without backup!”

Xanatos scoffs, but his eyes narrow. “Your clone troopers?”

Feemor shakes his head. “Recalled, to serve with Master Ki-Adi-Mundi. The Council wanted me to go as well, but I wasn’t going to leave you.”

“Idiot,” Xanatos says, but not like he means it. With a few brisk motions, he pulls his cloak on, flips his hood up, and attaches the lightsaber to his sash. “Our way out?”

“Clear.” Feemor turns his gaze to Alpha, and his eyes widen. “Oh. It’s you again.”

“Me,” Alpha says sardonically, and rattles his cuffs as best he can.

“Right,” Feemor says sheepishly, and crosses to Alpha’s side, putting a hand on his elbow and ducking around behind him. He smells like blood and scorched cloth, and from this close Alpha can see blaster holes burned through his robes. “Sorry, I don’t think I had time to get your name before.”

“You were too busy talking about how big I was,” Alpha says blandly, and outside the cell, Xanatos laughs, one sharp bark of amused disbelief.

“ _Feemor_ ,” he says. “He’d better have had his clothes on last time you met.”

Feemor goes red, all the way up to the tips of his ears. “He did!” he protests. “An undersuit. It was on Kamino.”

“Honestly, an undersuit might be worse than if he had been naked,” Xanatos muses, though the edge of the smirk Alpha catches a glimpse of is wicked. “Very…clingy.”

“Xanatos,” Feemor reproves. A moment later, the cuffs snap, and Alpha strangles a groan as he pulls his arms forward for the first time in hours. Gentle hands catch his forearm, and there's a tingling rush of Force healing that feels like getting dunked in a hot tub. Alpha doesn’t quite lean into it, but—the thought is there.

“Handy,” he allows, and Feemor casts him a quick smile.

“I can't do much,” he says, “but muscle strain is easy. Xanatos—”

Xanatos holds up his comm. “If our useless little successor would _answer his comm_ —”

“Xanatos!”

Xanatos sighs loudly, put-upon. “Fine. If _Obi-Wan_ would actually be useful for once in his life—”

Feemor pulls a face, but steps away from Alpha, giving him space. Alpha eyes him, kind of wanting to haul those hands back to keep that feeling of warmth and ease close, but manages to resist. Mostly because of the way Xanatos is eyeing him, narrow and suspicious.

“Obi-Wan is probably busy,” he says. “We should head for the surface and try to comm him from there.”

“I suppose.” Xanatos scowls at Alpha, says curtly, “Keep up, clone,” and then turns on his heel and stalks away.

Feemor’s sigh is resigned. “Sorry,” he tells Alpha. “He gets cranky when he hasn’t had a bath recently. He doesn’t mean it.”

“He needs his head shoved in a toilet,” Alpha says flatly, and Feemor laughs a little guiltily. It’s hard to imagine a more different pair than Feemor and Xanatos, Alpha thinks, eying them a little incredulously. Clearly they're both Jedi, and they both care for each other, but they're quite literally night and day.

“I heard that!” Xanatos calls back from further down the corridor.

“Good,” Alpha calls back, and eyes Feemor’s smothered laughter. “I'm Alpha-17.”

“Alpha-17,” Feemor repeats, and Alpha _did_ look him up after their meeting on Kamino. Thought about him, too, but—even with his memory it was hard to remember the exact pattern of the freckles across his cheeks. “You probably don’t remember me, but we met on Kamino—”

Alpha gives him a disbelieving look. “It was barely a month ago. Why the kriff wouldn’t I remember you?”

Feemor’s mouth opens, then closes. For some reason Alpha can't even begin to fathom, he looks like he’s at a loss for words.

Xanatos leans around the edge of the cell, brows almost touching his hairline. “You _remember_ ,” he repeats, incredulous. “You remember _Feemor_.”

Alpha scowls at him. “Just because you’ve got the mental capacity of a Rodian mudworm—”

“Easy, easy,” Feemor says, stepping between them even as Xanatos bristles. “Xan, we should go. Obi-Wan might leave the system if he doesn’t know we need a pickup.”

Xanatos’s eyes are narrowed, his expression dangerous, but after a long moment, he inclines his head. “Then stop drooling over _Alpha-17’s_ biceps and lead the way back to the surface,” he says pointedly. “ _I_ was unconscious when they carried me down here.”

Feemor goes red again, but ducks out the door, following the sweep of Xanatos’s black cloak. It takes a moment, but Alpha follows as well, trailing them at a safe distance. He knows how Jedi are.

If his gaze maybe strays to the way golden hair curls at the nape of Feemor’s neck, well. It’s only fair, after the way Feemor checked him out last time.

The only high point of the day is that their captors finally gagged Anakin.

Honestly, Alpha would be happier if they’d gagged Obi-Wan, too, because Obi-Wan has just as much of a tendency to put his foot in his mouth as his former padawan, but at this point he’ll take Anakin shutting up and be grateful for it, even if they're currently all dangling over _lava_ in wicker baskets with a laughing Sep general holding court on a dais above them.

The day’s shitty, but Alpha can still take petty joy in seeing Anakin get a rag shoved in his mouth. He’s a simple man.

“Any last words, Kenobi?” the general calls, mocking. “I’ve been waiting for this day so long, I don’t mind drawing it out.”

Obi-Wan looks mildly green as his basket spins, though maybe that’s whatever they drugged him with. “Who are you again?” he asks, and Alpha is in the perfect position to see the Sep general’s face twist with rage. He rolls his eyes so hard they hurt, even as the man puffs up, turning purple with fury.

“Lower the cages!” he shouts, and Alpha braces himself as they drop, a sickening lurch making him suck in a breath as they plummet towards the molten rock—

A wave of force hits them out of nowhere, grabbing all three baskets and sending them soaring up and over the lava, across the pit, and up onto the edge of the cliff, where they settle with light thumps and go still. In the same moment, a blue blade ignites with a hiss, coming to a halt right beneath the Sep general’s jaw.

“General Soam,” Feemor says calmly, politely, though his blue eyes are cold. “That’s enough. Surrender.”

Soam’s eyes flicker towards Feemor, and he swallows. “My life is worth nothing in the scope of the war, Jedi. Guards, execute them!”

Alarm surges, and Alpha tears his way through the wicker with a snarl, surging upright as he spins to face the row of guards on the slope below—

All of whom are laid flat out on the ground, dead or unconscious, with a man in black lounging on a rock beside them, looking eminently bored. When Alpha stares at him, he gives a sardonic little waggle of his fingers, then rises, fussily picking his way up the slope.

“Alpha-17,” he says coolly. “Feemor, deal with him and come assist me. Skywalker looks as if he’s rabid. Again.”

Feemor sighs, then flips his lightsaber around and slams the hilt into the general’s temple. The man crumples, and Feemor takes three quick steps and then launches himself across the pit with a lithe flip, landing lightly right next to Alpha.

“Xanatos,” he says, tone disappointed, and Xanatos sighs dramatically and waves a hand.

“ _Please_ ,” he adds pointedly, and Alpha snorts before he can help it.

“You could always leave the gag in,” he says.

Feemor gives him a look like he’s disappointed in Alpha for being so cruel, and Alpha stares back without a millimeter of regret. Besides, he can see the way Feemor’s mouth is set, how hard he’s trying to hide a smile. It’s still a little too pretty. Alpha would like to file a complaint with whoever is responsible.

“We’re not leaving the gag in,” Feemor says reprovingly, and slices through the wicker of Obi-Wan’s cage, letting him spill out into Feemor’s arms.

“Oh,” Obi-Wan says, politely dismayed. “I think I'm going to be sick.”

“That would be what happens when you allow yourself to be captured on a planet famous for drugs able to suppress a sensitive’s connection with the Force,” Xanatos says, unimpressed, and flicks his fingers, sending the basket hurtling into the lava.

Obi-Wan grimaces, closing his eyes. “Good morning, Xanatos. It’s truly a pleasure to see your cheerful face again.”

“ _Ha_ ,” Xanatos says. From the look on Obi-Wan’s face, he entirely agrees with the sentiment.

Feemor sighs at both of them. “Xan, be nice,” he says. “Obi-Wan, look at me. How is your head?”

Obi-Wan turns his head and squints at him. “I'm sorry. Who are you again?”

Instantly, Xanatos’s expression goes sour, and Feemor’s expression shutters. Alpha raises a brow, looking from Xanatos to Feemor to Obi-Wan, and then over at Anakin. Anakin looks equally puzzled, though, so clearly no help is forthcoming from that direction, even if Alpha was willing to take the gag off long enough to get some answers.

“I'm Feemor,” Feemor says gently, and when Obi-Wan still looks baffled, he sighs. “Master Qui-Gon’s first padawan. We’ve met before. Last time was in the Separatist base on Dantooine.”

“Oh,” Obi-Wan says, startled. “Yes, of course, forgive me, Feemor. I forgot.”

“Unsurprising, given your intellectual capacity,” Xanatos bites out. In a wash of yellow, his lightsaber ignites, and he slashes viciously through Anakin's cage, then turns on his heel and stalks away, shoulders tense.

Feemor rolls his eyes a little, but leaves Obi-Wan sitting up and crosses to Anakin's side, quickly undoing the rope tying his hands and pulling the gag from his mouth. “Sorry, Ani,” he says gently. “We came as fast as we could.”

“Thanks,” Anakin says, pulling a face. “It’s that…presence thing, right?”

“Yeah,” Feemor confirms, rueful, and then rises to his feet, turning to face Alpha. “Alpha-17, I'm—”

“I remember,” Alpha says curtly, and Feemor pauses, clearly startled. He looks Alpha over, and Alpha gives him a smirk and says, “Still just as big as last time, if you want to cop another feel.”

Feemor turns red, just like all the previous times, and then gives him a bewildered look. “You really do remember. I—how?”

Alpha shrugs. He’s not a kriffing Jedi. “Nice hit. On the general.”

“Thanks.” Feemor’s smile is a little shy, and he looks away a moment later. “I should go help Xanatos. The extraction team from the 104th should be here soon.”

Wolffe, that means. Alpha eyes Feemor, considering Wolffe’s appreciation for big beings with objectively nice smiles, and decides that as something like Wolffe’s first father figure, it’s his sacred duty to crush all of Wolffe’s dreams. He follows Feemor, catching up in a few long strides, and hooks a hand over his hip to pull him out of the way of a thorn bush. And, since his hand is right there anyway, he gets a handful of firm ass, squeezes, and lets go as Feemor squeaks.

“Thanks for the save, Feemor,” he says, pitched low, and the red comes rushing back into Feemor’s face. He almost seems to sway towards Alpha for just an instant, then jerks himself back—

Alpha catches him around the waist, hauls Feemor up against him until they're nose to nose, and says, “Careful. Wouldn’t want you to fall into the lava.”

“Right,” Feemor says, ragged, and swallows. “Thank you, Alpha-17.”

“Alpha,” Alpha corrects. “Less syllables. Easier to scream.”

Feemor’s breath catches. His eyes flicker down to Alpha’s mouth, like he can't even help the motion. And—

Well. What’s Alpha supposed to do but oblige him and lean in?

He’s definitely not going to spend _any_ time thinking about Wolffe now. Alpha’s confident about that. Even if Xanatos is glaring daggers at him when he finally drags his mouth away from Feemor’s, as bristling and overprotective as a mother nexu, Alpha doesn’t regret it for a moment.

Feemor looks a little dazed, a little flushed, entirely breathless. His hands are tight around Alpha’s elbows, and he’s staring at him, wide-eyed.

“What? Never been kissed before?” Alpha asks, only a little mocking. “Because if you tell me you're a virgin—”

Feemor laughs, bright and winded. “Not by someone who remembered me when they weren’t looking at me,” he says, and. Well.

It’s close enough to a challenge for Alpha to take it as one, and he leans in again, catches Feemor’s mouth, and tries his best to make _him_ forget his name, too.


End file.
